Middle-Earth Meets Mary-Sue
by Triskelion
Summary: This is a comical retelling of the fellowship’s quest as it might have been if Tolkien had been a Mary-Sue fan. This is not commentary on some of the fics here. It’s funny – really – not just Stereotype!Mary-Sue action.
1. Mary-Sue Meets Middle-Earth

Author's Note: I would like to establish that I am NOT trying to insult anybody who might end up feeling   
hurt by this story. I am not criticizing any particular story that I read. I am not criticizing 16-year-old   
twentieth-century American girls (after all, I was one myself only two years ago.) I am not even criticizing   
the genre – I'm sure that there are some excellent stories out there that insert realistic non-canon heroines.   
I am simply spending my spare time writing something which I consider to be funny. Please don't be   
offended.  
  
Disclaimer: This is fanfiction.net. Therefore this is fan fiction. Therefore I do not own J. R. R. Tolkien's   
characters. Therefore I do not deserve to be sued. And if anyone, including me, attempts to make money   
off of this fic, lawyers will chase the plagiarist down and poke out his or her eyes with a purple fountain   
pen. So there.  
  
  
MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE  
  
  
If asked, Mary Susan Smith would have said that she was not an average 16-year-old twentieth-  
century American girl. Of course, statistics show that over seventy-five percent of teenagers consider   
themselves "above average," so that isn't really saying much. (Please note that I (I being ME, the author,   
here engaged in breaking the fourth wall (do you call it 'the fourth wall' in a story, or just in comics?) by   
talking to my audience (provided that I have an audience (not likely)) said twentieth century. Not twenty-  
first century. Mary Sue (as her friends like to call her) has not seen FotR. Please excuse my nested   
parentheses too. (Tolkien didn't nest parentheses. (But I'm sure that you already guessed I wasn't Tolkien.   
I think I said so in the disclaimer. If I didn't … well … I'm saying it now. Don't sue.)) Back to the story.)  
  
Anyway, whether average or not, Mary Sue had never touched Tolkien's masterpiece in her life.   
Well, that's not strictly true. While at her best friend Mary Jane's house, she had tripped on Mary Jane's   
little brother Larry Stu's copy of LotR, but since she was wearing shoes, she didn't technically touch it. So   
even if it's not STRICTLY true, it is TECHNICALLY true.  
  
Right. I can see you all yawning now. On with the plot.  
  
Even though she had not read LotR, she was somewhat familiar with Middle-earth. (Mary Jane's   
little brother liked to talk. A lot.) And she was interested in seeing the movie someday. She had seen   
pictures of the actors on the 'net and thought that elves were really … cool. Larry Stu – a perceptive child   
– had overheard a conversation that went something like this:  
  
"Ooooh, aren't elves just the COOLEST things ever?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, that Legolas guy is sooooo *hot*!"  
  
Larry got very little sleep that night. Philosophical questions tended to keep him awake, and no   
amount of pondering could reveal to him a way in which something could be both "cool" and "hot."   
Unless it was an icecube sitting on a lighted burner. Not that he'd ever PUT an icecube on a lighted burner.   
No. Certainly not. They couldn't prove anything.   
  
However, this is not *The Life and Times of Larry Stewart Doe, Born at an Early Age to   
Unsuspecting Parents whom He Did Not Know and Who Afterward Claimed Not to Know Him Either.*   
(Author's Note: However, if enough interest is expressed, I may release this interesting manuscript for   
public perusal.) This is actually *Middle-Earth Meets Mary Sue.* I'm not saying it's any more interesting   
. . . but that's what it is.  
  
There was no possibility that she would NOT take a walk that day. (Sorry. It was a toss-up   
between this and "It was not a dark and stormy night.") The weather was gorgeous. The sun shone   
benevolently – though really, what with all the talk about ozone rays … but I digress. The azure sky was   
dotted with fluffy white clouds that Mary Sue privately thought looked an awful lot like her little sister's   
fluffy white bedsocks. The fresh breeze meandered through the trees practically radiating peace-and-  
goodwill-toward-all-mankind.   
  
The trees, I must say, were in a park. The park was a *special* park. It had the incomparable   
distinction of being the park where Mary Susan Smith (and her best friend Mary Jane Doe) took daily   
walks to discuss the cuteness, geekiness, and general incompetency of the boys in their high school.   
Unless, of course, they were discussing Larry Stu's latest peculiarities.  
  
Since I don't want to bore anyone any more than they are already bored, I think I will omit the   
conversation between Mary Sue and Mary Jane. Suffice it to say that they were talking with great   
animation and volubility. Then . . .  
  
Gray clouds scudded over the sky. A flock of ravens sped overhead, one harsh cry breaking the   
sudden stillness. (Mary Sue and Mary Jane did not notice; they were talking about Ken Parker, the weird   
nerd with glasses.) Thunder crashed in the distance, and despite the wind's sudden acceleration in miles-  
per-hour, the trees around Mary Sue and Mary Jane became perfectly still. (Mary Sue and Mary Jane did   
not notice; they were wondering how Ken Parker, the weird nerd with glasses, would look *without* his   
glasses.) There was a sudden brilliant flash of blue, gold, crimson, green, silver, white, and scarlet light,   
casting off eight-sided sparks into the still air. Mary Jane did not notice; she was preparing to artfully angle   
the conversation toward Ken Baker, the cool geek with contact lenses. But when conversation experienced   
a sudden drop in volume, Mary Jane was finally forced to realize that something out-of-the-ordinary had   
occurred.   
  
It took her only 27.6 seconds to deduce the source of the conversation's sudden awkwardness –   
Mary Jane, also, was one of those above-average girls. Mary Sue, Mary Jane realized with a thrill of   
horror, had vanished into thin air.  
  
(This phrase, incidentally, had puzzled Larry Stu for months. Air wasn't really all that thin – not   
compared to, say, space. And anyway, how can a gas really have measurable proportions? Something   
can't be thin if you can't measure it. But, as I said, this is not *The Life and Times of Larry Stewart Doe,   
Born at an Early Age to Unsuspecting Parents whom He Did Not Know and Who Afterward Claimed Not   
to Know Him Either.*)  
  
Another 7.2 seconds consideration informed Mary Jane that the disappearance of her best friend   
had coincided suspiciously with that flash of light. Hence …   
  
"Omigosh!" Mary Jane gasped. "ALIENS!!!"  
  
* * * * *   
  
However, as all of my discerning readers will have guessed, Mary Sue (henceforth referred to as   
Mary, since there is no longer any chance of confusing her with Mary Jane) had not been kidnapped by   
aliens, or even abducted by a UFO. She had merely been wrenched through the broken fabric of space,   
time, and reality. She had been catapulted into Middle-earth.  
  
Mary Sue blinked. Instead of strolling down a well-trimmed path in a well-kept part at the side of   
Mary Jane, she found herself standing in a gloomy tunnel made by great trees leaning together, gnarled and   
twisted with age, hung over by ivy and lichen, bearing only a few black leaves. Tangled boughs and   
matted twigs blocked out almost all the sunlight; in the dark distances, red or green eyes could be seen,   
shining briefly in one spot, then in another. As a finishing touch, ropes of cobweb looped nearby trees like   
ill-made nets.  
  
Mary did not panic. She had, after all, recently won an award for being Remarkably Level-  
Headed and Sensible. Being sensible, Mary promptly realized that she was no longer in America. To sum   
it up, she was Somewhere Else. Probably somewhere rather nasty, judging by the spiderwebs. Mary   
reached for her pocket to make sure that she still had her comb and her pocketknife.   
  
Level-headed or not, Mary jumped slightly when she realized that her pocket had vanished. As   
her eyes (beautiful blue-green-gray ones with silver striations and really long eyelashes, in case you didn't   
know) adjusted to the stifling darkness, she realized that instead of her jeans and sweater she now wore an   
extremely attractive (and extremely impractical) silk dress, some really cool boots (complete with knife-  
holders), a silver-gray cloak with a star-shaped brooch, a silver necklace with a star-shaped pendant, and, at   
her side, a long, sharp, perfectly-balanced-yet-feather-light sword with a star-shaped hilt. Er, no, I mean,   
the hilt had a star-shape engraved on it.   
  
A few more moments inspection further informed Mary that her hair (dark as the night, yet with   
entrancing silver-gold highlights like the light of the sun at noon) had grown about three feet and somehow   
managed to intricately braid itself during her 0.06-second transit through the rift of space, time, and reality.   
While exploring the braids with her slender pearl-tipped fingers, she brushed up against one of her ears . . .   
and felt a pointy tip.  
  
Pointy ears?! Mary gasped faintly in the oppressive stillness of the forest, and a black squirrel   
blinked at her sympathetically. A passing fugitive, short as a hobbit, skinny as a spider, dark and silent as   
darkness save for two big pale round eyes in his thin face, paused in his stooped scuttling to stare (with his   
pale, telescope-like eyes) at the beauteous vision on the path. Mary noticed him out of the corner of her   
eye, but was too distracted by her discovery to attempt speech with the long-armed, long-legged, long-  
fingered, large-footed, skinny-necked creature. Instead, she gasped again. All was clear. Only elves had   
pointy ears; elves only existed in Middle-earth (as Larry Stu had told her many times); therefore this was   
Middle-earth and she was an elf.   
  
Being an intelligent, enlightened twentieth-century girl, Mary instantly knew what had happened.   
Her inner elf-self had been released, and she had been transported to her true home.  
  
If only her true home had cars.  
  
With a sigh, Mary Sue began to walk.  
  
  
  
  
NEXT on MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE: Mary-Sue meets Middle-earth!!! Featuring guest star   
LEGOLAS (Greenleaf), son of THRANDUIL (King of Mirkwood), and various ORCS (Yrch) of DOL   
GULDUR (Fortress of the Necromancer). What will happen next??? Tune in tomorrow for the NEXT   
exciting episode of MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE!   
  
Brought to you by WWRtWWW: Writers Will Rule the World Wide Web. 


	2. Mary-Sue Meets Legolas Greenleaf

Author's Note: My deepest and sincerest thanks to all those who reviewed. I must say that I was pretty   
thoroughly floored when (checking to see if it had even appeared on ffn.net yet) I discovered that 9 reviews   
had already come into being. You can imagine my surprise, especially since the other stories I've written   
have only gotten one review each . . . *sigh* . . . not that I'm asking anyone to go and read them. Certainly   
not. They aren't even humor. (I mean it – honestly – I am NOT asking you to read them. Especially not   
the long one – I wrote it ages ago and it's terrible.)  
  
Anyway, since I didn't get flamed, I'm going to assume that no-one's feelings were too badly hurt by my   
writing, and skip the frantic effort to disassociate myself from criticism in general.   
  
In answer to your question, Lindsay Lou: Oops! "Harry" Stu was a typo - I have changed it to "Larry."   
Thanks for the heads-up. Mary Sue and Mary Jane are two different people; Mary Jane is Mary Sue's best   
friend. Hope that clears it up.   
  
(I'd like to mention-by-name each reviewer and personally thanks him or her for reviewing – 'specially   
since some of the reviews were really great feedback – but I have to go study. Physics. Ptooie. Sorry.)  
  
Disclaimer: All Middle-earth characters and situations belong to . . . well . . . they don't belong to me.   
This is a work of fan fiction, intended solely for purposes of entertaining bored people (like me) who can't   
think of anything better to do with their time. That, or bored people (even more like me) who want to go   
watch FotR again but don't have enough money.   
  
Life is hard.  
  
On with the story.  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
We (we being the author & the readers) left our above-average twentieth-century 16-year-old   
American girl (miraculous yanked through a jagged tear in space, time, and reality, transformed into a   
wondrously fair elf-maiden, and outfitted in impractical yet gorgeous garments) stranded in the depths of   
Mirkwood forest (former home of dwarf-eating spiders, bad-tasting black squirrels, reclusive forest elves,   
socially-inept orcs, bad-tempered Ringwraiths, and one very unpleasant Dark Lord (also known as the   
Necromancer, the Lidless Eye, Sauron, Gorthaur, and Morgoth's Lapdog ("Master" to his friends))). We   
rejoin her on a random path in that most dreaded of dreadful forests, some six hours after her arrival.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The day drew on to its weary close, though the waning of light was scarce noticeable in the dark   
depths of Mirkwood. Stout of heart (though not of figure), Mary Sue proceeded resolutely on her way.   
Miraculously, her dainty new leather boots (Please note: No Animals Were Harmed in the Making of this   
Fanfic.) With incomparable courage, she ignored the pale bulbous insect-eyes hovering in the gaunt   
branches above her, resting one slim hand on the reassuringly cool hilt of her lethal blade.  
  
At least, she was pretty sure that it was lethal. The edges certainly looked sharp, though the sword   
was long, sharp, perfectly-balanced, and yet feather-light. But it was hard to be positive, since Mary had   
never seen a real sword before … though her best friend Mary Jane's little brother Larry Stu had a pretty   
nifty fake Civil War cavalry saber.  
  
Mary began to get bored. After all, thrilling new clothes and distant, menacing, gleaming pairs of   
eyes fading and reappearing in the distance were only exciting for a limited amount of time. Flapping   
black moths, as big as TI-83-PLUS calculators, and scuffling, grunting, keening, crying, scuttling noises   
behind stark black trunks in the invisible undergrowth lost their interest after a few hours. Even the tangles   
of dark, rope-thick or floss-thin cobwebs, wound all about in the trees on either side of the path, became   
common-place and dull once one was used to them.  
  
And Mary, after all, WAS stout of heart (though not, of course, of figure). A little thing like being   
jerked through the fabric of space, time, and reality and changed into an elf was not going to phase Mary   
Susan Smith! Being bored, however, was unacceptable. Mary was seriously considering leaving the path   
in order to spice things up a little (maybe she could slay a few foul spiders . . . ? For, of course, Mary had   
realized instantly to what type of bug those pale bulbous insect-eyes belonged. (Larry Stu, Mary Jane's   
little brother, had he been there, would have been eager to tell her that spiders were not bugs. In order to be   
a "bug," an insect must have six legs. Spiders had eight. In fact, it is a most interesting fact of science that,   
though all bugs are insects, not all insects are bugs . . . but Mary Sue would not have been interested in his   
exposition, and, doubtless, neither are you. Back to the story.))   
  
Fortunately for our heroine -- (she is our heroine, is she not? For how can one have a story   
without a heroine? (Although William Makepeace Thackeray apparently managed quite well without. In   
fact, I believe that the general premise of *Vanity Fair* is that it has no hero . . . but I find that I am   
straying from the point again. Mary Sue had not read *Vanity Fair* - and even if she had, it is not   
particularly relevant to her present situation.) I think we will continue to call her our heroine . . . for she is   
the main character. Right. Let's push on.) Fortunately for our heroine, as I was saying, at the very instant   
in which she balanced on the razor-edge of destiny, poised to determine her fate by leaving the path or not,   
a kindly Valar gave her a gentle nudge in the right direction. (A lucky thing, too, for if she had fallen off   
on the *left* side instead, she would have ended up entangled in spider web and very much NOT among   
those living. Such a thing would, of course, be simply tragic. (I seem to be in danger of over-extending my   
simile. Better stop before it's too late. Who knows, I might go on to discuss whether or not the razor-edge   
of destiny damaged the soles of Mary Sue's dainty new leather boots (Please Note: No Animals Were   
Harmed in the Making of this Fanfic). *Shudder.* Such a thing would, of course, be wholly unacceptable.   
You, the readers, are not interested in the state of Mary's dainty new leather boots (Please Note . . . you   
know the rest.))  
  
Mary did NOT leave the path, for just as she pivoted on one dainty toe to stride valiantly into the   
dark recesses of the looming wood, a frightful din caught her dainty pointed ears. She spun back, ethereal   
skirts floating lightly about her (not unlike the woven coat of mothweb-light, all moon-lit white, worn by   
the inestimable Little Princess Mee (Please see illustration on page 217 of *The Tolkien Reader* to get the   
right idea)).   
  
With swiftness rivaled only by that of Shadowfax, Chief of the Mearas (lords of horses), property   
of Gandalf (Wizards Inc., Limited), Mary sped down the dark path, ivy-strangled tree-trunks flitting past   
her in the dusky shadows. As she emerged into a moon-lit glade, (where did all the tree branches go?) she   
whipped her sword out of its sheath (deep brown; trimmed with silver; set with emeralds. Very expensive   
scabbard). Mary had, of course, practiced whipping her sword out of its sheath 63 times during the day.   
She had, after all, had nothing better to do. The sword, being elvish, glowed. There were enemies about.  
  
The moon-lit glade was filled with orcs – and, of course, with moonlight. Being the perceptive   
girl (I mean, elf-maiden) that she was, Mary quickly set her priorities straight. The moonlight was of little   
importance. It could be dealt with later. The orcs were the more urgent matter. Especially since they   
seemed to be beating up a hapless wood-elf. (Query: how could a bunch of noisy orcs catch a *wood-elf*   
in a *forest*? (Well, have to introduce the secondary characters somehow. (And no, the orcs are NOT the   
main characters. They're not even the secondary characters. They are merely the Evil Overlord's hoard of   
Bumbling Underlings.)))   
  
Actually, the wood-elf was accounting himself pretty well. He seemed to have slain five or six   
orcs already, but since the moon-lit glade had contained thirty or more of the foul creatures (not counting   
the moonlight), he hadn't really made much of a dent in their numbers. Though he had made a sizable dent   
in the chief orc's helmet.   
  
Mary, being the kindly, sympathetic girl (I mean, elf-maiden) that she was, instantly leapt forward   
with a piercing warcry that filled the wavering elf with new courage and strength. His renewed efforts at   
freeing himself of encumbering orcs might have been due to solely to his sudden desire to get away from   
the piercing noise threatening to worsen his raging headache, but it is more charitable to assume that he was   
just happy for the aid.   
  
As Mary deflected the first blow flung at her by a hairy, drooling, hunch-backed, fang-toothed,   
leather-eared, armed-with-a-bloody-and-chipped-scimitar orc, an incredible realization flooded her above-  
average mind. Despite having never seen a real sword before (if we discount Larry Stu's fake Civil War   
cavalry saber), Mary found herself parrying, thrusting, slashing, and, in general, behaving like a cross   
between a Jedi and a Musketeer. Her quick mind put two and two together and came up with four in less   
time than it took her to decapitate twelve orcs and bisect five others. Obviously, the power that had   
wrenched her through the rift of space, time, and reality in a flash of brilliant light (surrounded by eight-  
sided sparkles) had not only turned her into an elf, but endowed her with incredible fighting skills as well.  
  
While marveling at this strange chance, she finished off the other orcs. Mary was stout of heart   
(though not of figure), so the sight of thirty or more bleeding corpses lying in the cold moonlight phased   
her no more than had her earlier realization that she would get no lunch.   
  
The elf straightened, his manly graceful form evident in the moonlight, and sheathed his twin   
daggers (very impressive daggers, too - almost like twin swords) before turning toward her and bowing. "I   
know not from whence you sprang, beauteous maiden," he whispered in awe, sinking down onto one knee,   
"But I thank you for your timely aid. Had you not slain these miscreants, I would doubtless have joined my   
forefathers in the Halls of Mandos."  
  
(Perhaps we should mention at this point that the power that had catapulted Mary through space,   
time, and reality in 0.06 seconds had not only turned her into an elf and endowed her with incredible   
fighting skills but also permitted her to both understand and speak elvish.)  
  
"Not a prob.," said Mary graciously. "Everything's cool. Glad I could help and all that. Besides,   
these guys were pretty dumb-looking. Guess they're the bad guys, huh?"  
  
(Unfortunately, the power had done nothing with her vocabularly.)   
  
The elf gazed at his wondrous rescuer with eyes like those of a love-struck Jack Russel terrier.   
Never in his life (almost 3,000 years) had he seen such a beautiful sight. There, leaning on her elf-crafted   
sword (now NOT glowing, as the battle was over), stood an elf of just-above-middle height, clad in a   
gossamer-light silk dress, drifting mysteriously about her (despite the absence of wind). Her hair was as   
dark as the night, yet lit with strands as silver as the stars or as golden as the sun – or as silver-gold as a   
flashlight beam. Her eyes were pools of ageless wisdom and beauty, blue as the sky, green as the sea, gray   
as the dusk (which all elves love), streaked with silver star-light. Her ears, pearly as the rosy-fingered   
dawn, were pure and pointed – perfection itself. Her voice, when she spoke, was as melodious and riveting   
as the song of Nimrodel (like falling silver).  
  
"Er, are you okay, mister? Those weird guys – orcs – didn't get you, did they?"  
  
The elf bounced back to his feet, bowing quickly. "No, fair maiden, I am unharmed. I trust that   
you, also, are not injured? My name," he continued, thereby committing a breach of etiquette by not   
waiting for her answer, "is Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, king of Mirkwood."  
  
"Wow, you're the king of Mirkwood? Way cool!"  
  
"No, fair maiden. My *father* is the king. Not that he's a very good one, mind," Legolas   
continued dubiously, dropping the archaic diction now that he had a measure of his companion, "because   
he's got this *thing* for silver and precious gems. Last time we wood-elves took his advice, we ended up   
camped on the muddy shores of some cold lake up north surrounded by a bunch of surly humans and   
dragons and had to fight some battle with half-a-million dwarves and goblins running around. And I'd be   
willing to swear that I saw a giant bear there too . . . I definitely don't want to get involved with dwarves   
and humans again." And Legolas shuddered gracefully at the horrible memory.  
  
Indeed, those days of living on salted fish and elvish waybread had been a great trial.  
  
"Oh," said Mary blankly. "Well, my name is -" At this point a very peculiar thing occurred.   
Apparently, the power that had catapulted Mary through space, time, and reality in 0.06 seconds had not   
only turned her into an elf, endowed her with incredible fighting skills, and permitted her to both   
understand and speak elvish, but had also given her a new name. Instead of saying "Mary Susan Smith, but   
my friends call me Mary Sue. Since you're just a casual acquaintance, you can call me Ms. Smith," Mary   
found herself saying, " . . . my name is Argalawenisildriela."  
  
"A beautiful name to fit a beautiful elf," Legolas declared fervently, ready to express his undying   
love (elves have to have undying love, since they are, after all, immortal) then and there.  
  
Mary frowned. Here she had just saved this guy . . . Leg . . . Legolas? Oh, that guy. She   
suspended judgement while eyeing him thoughtfully.  
  
The actor was cuter.  
  
Here she had just saved this guy Legolas from certain Death By Orc, and all he could do was offer   
corny compliments. He might at least giver her some food. Men were so inept. "Whatever," she said,   
clinching the discussion then and there. "How do I get out of this dratted forest?"  
  
Legolas recollected his mission at that point, and his fair face became downcast. The sky followed   
suit, and the moon became obscured by clouds. Legolas sighed wistfully as the darkness hid the form of   
his One True Love from him, then continued his sad tale. "I would willingly guide you to my father's   
court, Argalaweni . . . Argalawines . . . ah . . . fair maiden, but I am bound to make all speed toward   
Imladris. A prisoner we were bound to guard and keep has escaped our hands, and I must carry this   
grievous news to all parties concerned."  
  
"If you're having a party, I'm coming too," Mary said firmly. "And call me 'Mary' if you can't   
do a simple thing like pronounce a perfectly simple name like Argalawenisildriela."   
  
So the two elves set out on the dark paths of Mirkwood, setting their faces toward Imladris, elf-  
haven of the West. Mary strode assured in her assurance while Legolas cast wistful sideways glances at the   
fairest elf maiden since Luthien Tinuviel.   
  
Far away, a Gondorian captain brooded on a river-bank on the iniquities of Rohan horses that   
could not even keep afoot in a river. He should have let Faramir come instead.  
  
Far away, a dwarf strode by his father's side, hoping and wishing that his friends and family in   
Moria yet lived. Uncle Oin owed him two helmets, a battleaxe, and a bag of mithril after their last game of   
poker and he had every intention of collecting.  
  
Far away, a long-legged Ranger sat in a tree throwing apples at a surly fellow called Bill Ferny.   
"Longshanks" indeed!  
  
Far away, a hobbit was tidying up a little house at Crickhollow, wondering how Bilbo Baggins   
had found a magic ring . . . and what he could do with one of his own.  
  
Far away, Gandalf the Grey strode the pinnacle of Orthanc, fretting at the stupidity of Radagast the   
Brown and the nasty right hook of Saruman the No-Longer-White. Why didn't that eagle hurry up? And   
they called him "Windlord!"  
  
Far away, three hobbits, replete with an excellent supper, pushed their chairs back cheerfully and   
left the washing-up for Lobelia.  
  
Thus the first strand of the fate of Middle-earth was woven.   
  
  
* * * * *  
  
NEXT on MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE: Mary-Sue meets the Fellowship – can Rivendell   
cope!?!?!? Featuring guest stars ELROND (Half-elven), brother of ELROS (King of Numenor, now   
deceased), son of ELWING (daughter of Dior, son of Beren and Luthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian)   
and ËARENDIL (son of Idril, daughter of . . . never mind.), ARWEN (Tinuvièl) daughter of ELROND   
(Halfelven), ARAGORN (also known as Strider, Longshanks, Estel, Elessar, Telcontar, Wingfoot,   
Thorongil . . . I think I've forgotton one), son of ARATHORN, GIMLI (the dwarf) son of GLOIN (friend   
of Thorin (Oakenshield)), FRODO – never mind, OK? There are too many to list. Featuring a lot of guest   
stars, all right? Lots and lots and lots of guest stars. Happy now?   
  
What will happen when they all get together for the COUNCIL??? Will the ONE RING (Isildur's Bane,   
forged by Sauron (Evil Maiar Inc., founded in the First Age by Melkor. Out-of-this-world pay, generous   
pension plan, evil minions unlimited. Call 1-800-MORGOTH for further information.)) be revealed!?   
Tune in tomorrow for the NEXT exciting episode of MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE!  
  
  
Brought to you by WWRtWWW: Writers Will Rule the World Wide Web. 


	3. Mary-Sue Meets Rivendell

Author's Note: Yeesh. These chapters really ARE awfully wordy, aren't they? At this rate it's going to   
take me twelve chapters just to get to Moria. Time to speed up. Thanks again to all reviewers.   
  
Disclaimer: It goes without saying that I didn't invent Middle-earth. It's not mine. (If it goes without   
saying, why'd I just say it?) In fact, I didn't even invent the witty disclaimer. Somebody else did and I'm   
plagiarizing their idea. Sorry.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The journey proceeded uneventfully (if one discounts the 8.3 attacks by savage orcs (goblins from the   
Misty Mountains for the most part), the 4.7 attacks by spiders (big ones), the 1.9 howling storms that nearly   
killed our intrepid heroine (Mary) and her companion (Legolas), and the 0.8 ambushes by desperate   
bandits. (In all of these unpleasant and inconvenient minor encounters, Mary Sue saved her elven   
companion from a nasty and untimely death. She is, after all, The Heroine; and everyone knows that know   
denizen of Middle Earth even thinks about defending themselves when a Mary Sue is around to do it for   
them.)) until our valiant travelers reached their destination: Rivendell, the Last Homely House (also known   
as Imladris).   
  
Just as they rode up (yes, they did somehow acquire two beautiful steeds in the course of their travels),   
Mary, with her keen eyesight, noted that a disturbance of some sort at the ford. Being the kind-hearted and   
courageous damsel (I mean, elf-maiden) that she was, she instantly wheeled her doughty stallion about and   
set out at a dead run for the ford. She quickly realized that she would not make it before the nine hooded,   
black-cloaked figures (obviously evil. It's in the Mary-Sue handbook: all hooded, black-cloaked figures   
must be destroyed without delay (especially if threatening an innocent child)) reached the small figure on   
the white horse and overpowered him.  
  
Wild with desperation, Mary drew her horse to a halt and stretched out her hand.   
  
At this point, she discovered that the power which had torn the veil of space, time, and reality had not only   
turned her into an elf, endowed her with incredible fighting skills, permitted her to both speak and   
understand elvish, given her a new name, and gifted her with prize-worthy riding skills but had also granted   
her mighty elvish powers. Scarce knowing what it was that she did, she released the mighty power surging   
up inside her; the stream exploded in white foam. Rage-crested waves rose and bore down upon the   
hapless Nazgul (not that Mary knew they were Nazgul, mind), thundering in fury with the voice of the   
Valar themselves. Blindingly white horsemen and tumbling boulders seemed outlined in the crashing   
waters. Unearthly, piercing screams echoed from the Nazgul as the water overtook them and bore them   
away.  
  
Mary slumped elegantly in her saddle, placing one slender hand over her racing heart. She had saved the   
hobbit (for indeed she now saw clearly that it WAS a hobbit (halfling)), and delayed the rise of the   
Ringwraiths. Yet as she watched the thrashing, dying forms of the dead horses being carried away by the   
flood, it was all to evident to her crystal-sharp mind that Middle-earth stood in grave peril.  
  
Water pollution.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Nothing of interest occurred in the next week or so (because I (the author) say so. I have a limited amount   
of time and I want to write the Council scene. Change is good.), although Mary became slightly acquainted   
with a few minor characters such as Elrond, Arwen, Aragorn (who stared at her speechlessly until Arwen   
slapped him back to his senses), Merry, Pippin, and Gandalf (who eyed her from under bristling brows and   
murmured, "Hmph.").   
  
However (as a plot device), Mary had little contact with these or with other future members of the   
Fellowship (not that she knew they were future members of the Fellowship) until the Council of Elrond.   
Despite stiff opposition by a few elf-lords (Mary secretly titled them `male chauvenist pigs'), Mary insisted   
on attending the meeting (despite the fact that no-one knew who she was or where she came from (it's a   
plot device)). Arwen decided to accompany her as moral support. (Read: Arwen was unwilling to miss an   
opportunity to be with Aragorn (even if only to stare at him lovingly and heave sorrowing sighs) even if it   
meant sitting through a deadly dull meeting.)  
  
After suspense had built up long enough, Gandalf (the Grey (also known as Mithrandir, Olorin, and a few   
other things that I have no intention whatsoever of looking up right now)) ushered in the last two invitees:   
Bilbo Baggins (Barrel-Rider) and Frodo Baggins (of the Nine Fingers (Please not the skillful   
foreshadowing)). Mary felt an icy hand clutch at her heart when she saw Frodo (a stout little fellow with   
red cheeks; taller than some, fairer than most). In the deep recesses of her mind, she instantly knew that the   
fate of this young (50 years old, actually) hobbit with the adorable cleft in his chin and the bright eyes that   
were not as bright as they should have been (in fact, they were shadowed with care) was unchangeably   
intertwined with her own. (Please note the skillful foreshadowing.)  
  
"Here, my friends," said Elrond (a tall and very wise looking halfelf, but since he is only a minor character   
we aren't going to go into his appearance any further), "is the hobbit Frodo son of Drogo (who drowned in   
the Brandywine River with his wife (apparently he pushed her in and she pulled him in after her. Sad)).   
Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent."  
  
Elrond then pointed out a tall man with a fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed (those eyes were   
currently engaged in admiring the fair features of Mary-Sue), proud and stern of glance (actually, his   
current glance reminded one of a romantically-inclined Easter Bunny). He might have gazed at Frodo and   
Bilbo with sudden wonder if he had not (as we said) been gazed at Mary-Sue with wonder that, though at   
least ten minutes old, was in no danger of wearing off.  
  
"Here," said Elrond, "is Boromir, a man from the South."  
  
"Gondor," said Boromir, tearing his proud and stern glance away from Mary-Sue to look at Elrond. "I am   
a man of Gondor. A rather important one, too," he added, sneaking another proud and stern glance at   
Mary. "I'm Captain-General of Gondor, son of Denethor (steward of Gondor), and High Warden of the   
White tower, not to mention -"  
  
Elrond raised his voice slightly. "He arrived in the grey morning, and seeks for counsel. I have idden him   
to be present, for here his questions will be answered."  
  
"A lot of us have questions we want answered!" snapped a dwarf.   
  
"One question *I* want answered is why *dwarves* were invited to this Council in the first place!"   
Legolas snapped, fixing his keen and angry gaze on the dwarf.  
  
Not all that was spoken (mostly by Elrond) and debated (mostly by Legolas and Gimli) in the Council need   
now be told (especially since we don't even know what it is). In fact, we (we being I, the author, and you,   
the readers (presuming you haven't been scared off yet)) are going to skip straight ahead to the bit where   
Boromir stands up and starts boasting about Gondor (land of the blood of Numenor (please forgive the   
absence of accent mark; I'm too lazy to put it on)). In fact, we're going to skip a lot of that too. Just   
imagine Boromir going on about Gondor's courage and selflessness (while sneaking covert proud and stern   
glances at Mary-Sue).  
  
"I have a dream - I mean, I had a dream," Boromir said, "and in that dream I thought the eastern sky grew   
dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered - much like the light of your   
eyes, fair lady," he added to Mary-Sue, who frowned at the cheap compliment, "and out of it, I heard a   
voice, remote but clear - the growing thunder nearly drowned it out, but fortunately I have good ears -   
crying:  
  
Seek for the Sword that was broken  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger that Morgul-spells.  
There shall be prophecies spoken  
Upon which fate must lie.  
All previous plots will be shaken,  
For *she* shall destroy the Eye.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand.  
  
Of these words we could understand little -"  
  
"Oh, don't be so *stupid,*" Mary-Sue snapped impatiently, her dulcet tones ringing out like a bell and   
stilling the assembly. "It's perfectly obvious. The Sword-that-was-broken refers to Narsil, the blade of   
Elendil, which Aragorn (also called Dunedan, Strider, Elessar, Telcontar, Estel, Wingfoot, Thorongil, and a   
few other things) is now carrying - he is Isildur's heir." Mary-Sue, you see, had not spent a week in   
Rivendell without learning a few things. Not a smart girl (I mean, elf-maiden) like her.  
  
"Imladris is Rivendell (like, duh), and Morgul-spells refer to the type of stuff that the Nine Riders   
(Ringwraiths, Nazgul, foul dwimmerlaiks - you get the drill) like to do during their coffee-breaks in Minas   
Morgul." Not that they would be getting coffee-breaks for a while; the Lidless Eye does not take kindly to   
inept servants. Foul dwimmerlaiks or not.  
  
"Obviously, someone's going to make an important prophecy giving us the identity of the person who will   
destroy the Eye (Sauron, also known as Gorthaur and the Necromancer), and some hobbit (halfling) is   
going to stand up and show us Isildur's Bane - which, if you know anything at all, you will know is none   
other than the One Ring forged by Sauron (Evil Maiar Inc., founded in the First Age by Melkor. Out-of-  
this-world pay, generous pension plan, evil minions unlimited. Call 1-800-MORGOTH for further   
information.)) to rule, bring, and bind all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth in the darkness in Mordor where   
the shadows lie."  
  
(Had Mary-Sue's best friend Mary Jane's little brother Larry Stu been present, he might have put forth a   
question regarding the phrase "where the shadows lie." How, he might have asked (very sensibly) could   
the shadows only lie in one place? Were they not cast by the sun, and did not the sun shine in ALL places?   
In fact, didn't the sun tend to avoid Mordor entirely (thereby showing surprisingly good judgement, for   
there are things better left unlit)? Probably no-one would have answered his question, but - right. I can   
take a hint. Back to the story.)   
  
A deafening silence (had Larry Stu been present, he might have inquired how a silence could possibly be   
deafening) greeted this flood of information. Frodo (Baggins) and Bilbo (Baggins) blinked. Gandalf (the   
Grey (note my correct spelling)) blinked (thereby almost losing his eyes amidst the flood of bushy   
eyebrow). Boromir (son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, High Warden of the White Tower)   
blinked. Aragorn (also known as Strider, Telcontar, Estel, Dunedan, Elessar, and a few others) blinked.   
Arwen (Tinuviel) blinked. Gimli (son of Gloin (also present)) blinked. Gloin (father of Gimli (also   
present)) would have blinked, but he happened to be asleep. Legolas (Greenleaf) would have blinked also,   
but he would never consent to copy a dwarf in anything.   
  
Elrond considered it beneath his dignity to blink. Instead, he spoke.   
  
"Er, yeah, that about sums it up," Elrond muttered. Then, in a louder voice, "Frodo, bring forth the Ring!"  
  
* * * * *  
  
NEXT on MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE: Mary-Sue meets destiny! Featuring ALL the guest   
stars already featured (except for the Orcs) and then some! What will be the result of Mary-Sue's stunning   
revelations? What will the prophecies reveal? WHO is the mysterious *she*, destined to defeat the Eye?   
Will the COUNCIL OF ELROND degenerate into petty squabbling, or will Mary-Sue save the day yet   
again? (Actually, it's getting well on toward evening, but no need to mention that.) Tune in tomorrow for   
the NEXT exciting episode of MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE!  
  
(A/N): Actually, I'm going to be extremely busy tomorrow. Don't know if I'll get a chapter up. Do I   
write slowly, or do I write SLOWLY!? I meant to get *all* of the Council of Elrond into this chapter - and   
lo, I have barely started. Grrrrr . . .   
  
  
Brought to you by WWRtWWW: Writers Will Rule the World Wide Web. 


	4. Mary-Sue Meets Destiny

Author's Note: On with the Council of Elrond! Remember: reviews are more than welcome (and encourage me to write faster). This is the first chapter that consists primarily of dialogue – so let me know what you think.  
  
On another subject entirely: anybody know why, in the half-a-dozen fics I've seen which involve a descendent of Sauron or Morgoth, that descendent is always female? Is it just because some people think there aren't enough female characters in Tolkien's world, or some deeper psychological reason that I'm completely missing out on? It's a trifle puzzling, that's all.  
  
Disclaimer: I did not create Middle-earth. Iluvatar created Middle-earth. The Silmarillion says so. I'm just writing a non-profit story. I didn't sell it, so you shouldn't either. If you try to (not that you could), a swarm of lawyers will converge upon your front lawn and sue you out of house and home.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
There was a hush, and all eyes turned to Frodo (Baggins, hobbit, and Ring- bearer extraordinaire) – save those of Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas, for their eyes were fixed firmly upon Mary-Sue, known to them as Argalawenisildriela. Frodo's slight yet muscular frame (for a hobbit, anyway) shook with a sudden quiver, and Mary's tender yet perceptive eyes (silver striations dotted her eyes (blue-green-gray as the sea at midnight) as reflections of the stars dot the sea (or so, at least, thought Legolas)) could discern shame and fear in the hobbit's bright eyes, as well as a wish to be far away.  
  
Being the intelligent, curious, sharp-eared, silent-footed sixteen-year-old twentieth-century girl/elf that she was, she had (naturally) spent the last week learning (or over-hearing (accidentally, of course, for such a peerless heroine would never have dreamt of eavesdropping (unless in the depths of a nightmare))) a great deal about the hobbit whose life she had saved. She knew full well that he had been wounded by the fell weapon of a Ringwraith: a deadly Morgul blade, intended to draw Frodo into the world of shadows under Sauron's sway. She knew also that hobbits were tough little chaps, and Frodo had not been subdued. He did, however, have a slight hint of transparency about him that Mary privately thought made him look rather like an angel.  
  
A short, pipe-smoking, hairy-footed angel named "Baggins," but an angel nonetheless. Were the Ring larger, it could serve as a halo.  
  
At any rate, Mary's perceptive eyes could instantly tell that this Ring was like a great weight upon Frodo's shoulders. It had already brought him unmeasurable suffering and grief – what else might it do?  
  
Frodo held up the Ring; it seemed to gleam and flicker in his trembling hand.  
  
"Behold Isildur's Bane!" said Elrond.  
  
"Scuse me," said a small voice politely. All heads swiveled to stare at a curly-haired, bare-footed hobbit (standing next to another curly-haired, bare-footed hobbit) in the doorway. "Not that I've been eavesdropping, mind you," the hobbit said earnestly, "but I'm Peregrin Took, but you can call me Pippin, or Pip if you're in a hurry."  
  
"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf muttered.  
  
"Or that, of course," Pippin continued cheerfully, "but, you know, I'm a good friend and close relation of Frodo there –"  
  
The other hobbit muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Third cousin five times removed," but Pippin plowed on ahead.  
  
"Anyways, I had a question. If Isildur really WAS killed by an orc arrow, like Captain Boromir there says, how come the Ring's called his Bane? I mean, he was killed, sure enough. Everybody knows that – why, Saruman has even fished his body out of the Great River, you know, but what I don't understand is -"  
  
"WHAT?" Gandalf roared, leaping to his feet with an agility you wouldn't expect from such an old wizard unless you were aware that he was *really* an ageless Maiar. "Fool of a Took! What do you mean?"  
  
"Nothing," Pippin said hastily. "Forget I asked. Er – Merry and I will just go sit over here now."  
  
"I will do nothing of the sort!" Mary snapped.  
  
There was a pause while everyone looked strangely at Mary (except Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas, who were still doing their love-struck-Shetland-Pony impressions). She then recollected that (according to her best friend Mary Jane's little brother Larry Stu, Tolkien fan extraordinaire) "Merry" was short for "Meriadoc." It might be pronounced just like "Mary" (as in "Mary had a little lamb"), but it did not mean HER, Mary Susan Smith.  
  
The uncomfortable moment passed as the two eaves-droppers retreated to the designated corner. The fact that they were not summarily chased out, reprimanded, and sent home in a sack (preferably a sack apiece, in order that Merry might be mailed directly to Buckland and Pippin mailed directly to Tuckborough, thereby saving on shipping expenses) is a mark of the Council's agitation.  
  
"This is, indeed, the One Ring forged by Sauron (politely referred to as "Him," or sometimes "The Biggest Boss" by close acquaintances)," Elrond declared gravely. "The question is – what are we to do with it?"  
  
Gimli leapt to his booted feet with a dwarf's typical haste. (And here you thought the only reason why Ents disliked dwarves was because they carried axes.) "Use it to defeat Sauron, of course!" he roared, and the other dwarves echoed his cry.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, dwarf," Legolas cried, then laughed. "Ah, how foolish of me! Of course, you dwarves – poor benighted creatures – cannot even *help* being ridiculous! But you could at least make an effort. We cannot wield this Ring – it is evil!"  
  
"It takes one to know one!" Gimli raged with more volume than thought.  
  
"Take that back, you bearded son of stone!" Legolas shrieked. In a flash, elves and dwarves were hurling insults at each other and drawing weapons. Elrond cried ineffectually for silence while Aragorn (heir of Isildur (son of Elendil)) and Boromir (son of Denethor (Steward of Gondor)) continued to gaze at Mary (daughter of Tom P. Smith (Mailman)).  
  
Pippin and Merry took advantage of the commotion to break out the snacks. Gandalf brought his staff down on the ground with a sound like a crack of lightning, roaring, "Fool of a Took! There is a time for eating and a time for NOT eating and this is DEFINITELY the LATTER!"  
  
The sudden noise half-woke the snoozing Gloin (father of Gimli, brother of Oin (currently a decomposing corpse in Moria (Khazad-dum))). He leapt up, obviously still in the grips of a dream, and brandished his mighty war- hammer. "Kill the men!" he howled. "Kill the elves! Keep the treasure for ourselves!"  
  
Smaug is dead, but Greed lives on.  
  
"You tell 'em, Dad!" Gimli shouted encouragingly. Boromir drew his sword.  
  
Elrond buried his face in his hands.  
  
With clarion swiftness, Mary realized that the fate of the Council lay in her slender hands (washed thrice daily with Herbal Essence Soap; It's Not Some Deep Spiritual Cleansing, But It's Close.) She instantly took action. Three quick strides and one agile dodge around Gloin's axe brought her up to the old dwarf's side. Delay was perilous. She acted swiftly.  
  
THWACK!  
  
"You – you just slapped my Dad in the face, elf-witch!" Gimli stuttered in disbelief. Mary turned a reproachful vision of beauty (a.k.a. her face) toward him, and instantly the stains were washed from the heart of Gimli son of Gloin. He had found his Ideal Woman – his Angel, his Vision, his Hope of Inspiration for the Future, Not to Mention for the Present. His axe fell to the floor with a clatter and he dropped to his knees. "Your pardon, fair lady! I see that my conduct was wrong!"  
  
"Darn right it was!" Mary snapped. Gloin lay on the floor, unconscious again. Gimli gazed up at her with beseeching puppy-dog eyes (the hair helped the puppy-dog impression too), and her heart melted. "There, there, I didn't mean to speak so harshly. But you'll be a good dwarf now, won't you?"  
  
Gimli gazed at her with the expression with which he might have gazed at Lady Galadriel had he not seen Argalawenisildriela first.  
  
Legolas "accidentally" loosed the arrow on his bow, giving Gimli an attractive decoration on his helmet, then turned to Elrond, his flawless features set in a noble and princely pout. "See," he began in his beautifully aggrieved elven voice, "that's what I don't like about Dwarves. They *always* try to take the spotlight."  
  
"Legolas," Elrond began wearily.  
  
"And they don't even have pointy ears!" Legolas continued indignantly.  
  
"Legolas -"  
  
"And *facial hair*! By the Valar, have you ever seen anything so disgusting in your life!?"  
  
Elrond paused to consider the question. "Some of Morgoth's foul minions were pretty disgusting," he replied gravely. "I think they outrank dwarven beards."  
  
Legolas looked taken-aback. "I thought you were supposed to be on my side!"  
  
"I thought we were supposed to all be on the SAME side," Elrond muttered.  
  
The conversation broke off when Arwen abruptly rose from her chair, her eyes (beautiful eyes, but pale and dull in comparison to the peerless eyes of Argalawenisildriela) becoming round and vacant, staring fixedly at some point in the distance which no-one else could see. The lights flickered and dimmed in a very foreboding sort of way; a wind whistled sharply around the still Council chamber and died again. The sun itself seemed to withdraw from the sky – possibly disgusted at being involved in such a plethora of corny foreshadowing. A ghostly light outlined Arwen's slender figure (but Aragorn (Telcontar, Elessar, Thorongil, Wingfoot, Dunadan, etc.) continued to watch Mary-Sue). Everyone seemed frozen in stone, petrified by the feeling that Something was Going to Happen.  
  
The silence was fraught with portent.  
  
"Darkness shall reign over Middle-earth," Arwen finally intoned, her fair elven voice (which seemed like the aimless croaking of a toad in comparison to the dulcet tones of Mary-Sue) ringing out in the portent-fraught silence like a harbinger of doom. "Darkness shall devour the land if Gorthaur the Cruel regains the One Ring. All Free Peoples shall perish in the shadows of Mordor if Sauron of the Nine Fingers is not destroyed. No man may slay the Great Eye. The fate of Middle-earth lies in the hands of an elven maid; Argalawenisildriela alone can banish the Dark Shadow that looms over Mordor."  
  
In a shock-fraught silence, Arwen sank gracefully back down into her seat (though still not as gracefully as Mary-Sue might have done). The lights came back on; the sun gratefully returned to his proper position in the sky, and the wind picked back up. The Council members, however, remained silent in startled surprise.  
  
Elrond, ageless features set in a puzzled frown, stared at his daughter's fair elven face, wondering when, where, and how she had acquired the gift of prophecy.  
  
Gandalf drew his bristling brows together, his lined face taking on an expression of deep thought, inscrutable wisdom, and grave consideration. He had just realized that he had mislaid his pipe.  
  
Boromir frowned, his proud yet stern glance flitting from Mary-Sue to Arwen and back again. If that had not been the prophecy referred to in his dream (why, WHY had he not let Faramir come instead?) then his name was not Boromir (son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, High Warden of the White Tower)! The question was, how could such a fair maiden slay the Nameless Enemy (as Gondorians like to call Sauron (Speaking of which, have you ever notice how Evil Overlords tend to *not* be referred to be their names? Is it a trend? A coincidence? Cutting commentary on general cowardice? Look at J. K. Rowlings' books – You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not- be-Named. Calling the chap "Voldemort" (which means wind-of-death in French) is a Big Deal, and Not the Done Thing. Look at Robert Jordan's books – the Shadow, the Great Lord of the Dark, and half a dozen other things (which I have completely forgotten and do not intend to go look up). Referring to the guy as "Shai'tan" is taboo. And I had another example in mind, but I seem to have forgotten it. Ah, well, that is life.)) and what could he, Boromir, do to aid her? For, of course, such a beautiful damsel (he had never seen a lovelier) deserved all the aid that Gondor could give her – and she certainly deserved to have a competent, good-looking chap such as himself at her side.  
  
Gimli laid a determined hand on his axe-haft. If the beautiful, the glorious, the shining-white-and-pure Argalawenisildriela was going to be walking into danger in order to defeat the Enemy (as dwarves like to call Sauron (Recently elected chairlord of Evil Maiar Inc., founded in the First Age by Melkor. Out-of-this-world pay, generous pension plan, evil minions unlimited. Call 1-800-MORGOTH for further information)) then he, Gimli, her loyal dwarf and knight (who says knights have to wearing shining white armor and ride horses?) would, without doubt, accompany her to guide and protect her.  
  
Aragorn's pale stern face remained expressionless as his keen grey eyes continued to watch Mary Sue. In fact, he had been so wrapped up in his admiration of the strange elf maiden that he had not heard a word of the prophecy (thereby defeating much of Arwen's purpose).  
  
The hobbits blinked at Arwen, at Mary, and then at each other with varying degrees of disinterest before returning to their light meal (six seedcakes apiece, three boiled eggs, nine apples to be shared between the five of them, a bottle of ale, a bit of chicken, and a nice big wedge of cheese, not to mention a delectable meat-cheese-and-pepperoni-topped round flat loaf covered in tomato spread (an elven delicacy)).  
  
Mary's lovely eyes widened, and she gasped inaudibly, laying one lily-white hand across her rose-red mouth in consternation.  
  
She was the prophesied one.  
  
It was her destiny to overthrow the Dark Lord.  
  
Her duty was clear.  
  
Difficult, life-threatening, onerous, and boring as such a task might be, Mary Susan Smith was not one to back down from a challenge.  
  
(Not that it would be much of a challenge. What Evil Overlord could stand up to a sixteen-year-old twentieth-century American girl/elf? Mary-Sue, however, being the humble heroine that she was, did not fully realize the non-challenging nature of the challenge, and thus sat silent in sorrowful acceptance of her fate.)  
  
Of course, Mary (despite being an above-average sixteen-year-old twentieth- century American girl/elf) did not realize that Arwen (Tinuviel) had … well … painful as it is to speak ill of an elf, it must be said that Arwen had fabricated the 'prophecy' in order to remove Mary (who was attracting WAY too much of Aragorn's attention – attention that should have been fixed on HER) from Rivendell (and therefore from Aragorn). Little did Arwen realize that her plan was destined to backfire.  
  
There was rather a lot of destiny floating around that day.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The surprise-fraught silence considered for a quarter of an hour, the Council members frozen in a (PHOTO-OP!!!) wonder-stricken tableau.  
  
Elrond (Half-elven, former banner-bearer of Gil-Galad (an elven king, of whom the harpers sadly sing; the last whose realm was fair and free – oh, all right, all RIGHT)) was the first to recover his voice. He was, after all, the moderator of this meeting, and as such it was his duty to deal with disturbances and infringements of proper parliamentary procedure.  
  
"Arwen Tinuviel Quarter-elven!" he said sternly. "You're out of order. Go to your room at once!"  
  
Arwen burst into tears, and Elrond's heart instantly melted. "There, there, dear, I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it," he said uncomfortably. "Um … ah …"  
  
Mary-Sue spoke, her crystal-clear tones, beauteous as the cry of gulls over Numenor, ringing softly in the still air of the Council chamber. (Larry Stu might have been able to point out that air is never still – its molecules are constantly in motion. Not that anyone could have cared less.) "I shall not let Middle-earth perish, though it means my own death," she said, such sorrow weighing in her voice that every man (and elf (save Arwen), and dwarf, and hobbit) felt tears start into his eyes. "If it be my destiny to challenge the Dark Lord, I shall fulfill it. If I alone can banish the Necromancer from Arda, then I shall set out to do so, whatever perils and griefs may lie in my path." She covered her glorious eyes with one pale hand, immortal, untouchable grief weighing her slim shoulders.  
  
"You shall not go alone!" thundered Gimli, his stone-hard dwarven heart softened by such mournful beauty.  
  
Legolas cursed the dwarf quietly under his breath. What good were elven reflexes if they didn't even let him speak first? How could he demean himself by volunteering after the dwarf had already spoken?  
  
Gandalf finally located his pipe, and tucked it safely into his hat-brim with a sigh of relief. Abandoning the effort to locate his equally recalcitrant pipe-weed, he attempted to pick up the thread of conversation again, asking, "But what of the Ring?"  
  
"It cannot stay here," Elrond said quickly, noting the avaricious gleam in Bilbo's eyes. "Rivendell cannot contain such evil – besides, it would be the first place Sauron would look."  
  
"It cannot go back to the Shire, either," Gandalf (the Grey, Mithrandir, Olorin, Stormcrow, Grayhame, Lathspell, etc., etc.) snapped. "That would be the second place He would look – besides, the White Council ordered me to keep an eye on it (two eyes when I can spare them), and I'm tired of bumping my head on the roofs of hobbit-holes. Do you have any idea how painful it is to bang your head in the same place twenty times? It's thanks to all those visits to Hobbiton that I have to wear such a large hat - I still have a lump the size of a palantir!"  
  
"What are we to do with it, then?" Elrond demanded. "None of the Wise can wield it – it would be too great a temptation! Where can we send it? Who can guard it?"  
  
"I – I suppose I could continue to bear it," poor Frodo whispered. Everyone turned to look at him as he sat clutching the ring, pain upon his brow, looking very pale, burdened, and interesting.  
  
Mary's heart was wrung with pity. "Oh, Frodo!" she cried, flitting across the stone floor and sinking to her knees (a graceful gesture that set Legolas, Boromir and Aragorn to sighing in admiration). "It wrings my heart with pity to see you so burdened! Let me bear the ring for you a short while!"  
  
Frodo considered smacking her upside the head, but abandoned the idea as a Thing that Bagginses Wouldn't Do. "Nay, fair lady," he whispered, shaking his head, "I thank you for your kind offer, but this burden is mine to bear alone." He bent his head, looking very noble, worn, and sad. Not to mention slightly transparent.  
  
Tears filled Mary's beautiful blue-green-gray eyes (with silver striations), and glistened on her long, dark eyelashes. "Oh, Frodo," she cried in a voice of such sorrow that the Valar must have wept to hear it. "Not alone!" She clasped his hobbit-hand in her own fair fingers, letting a few pearly tears fall on his trousers (fortunately Sam was able to wash the salt out of them when he next did Mr. Frodo's laundry). "I will never abandon you – none of your friends will!"  
  
"That's tellin' 'im!" Sam cheered from his position in the corner. A random elf-lord turned to stare at him and he hastily subsided.  
  
"All of us will be more than glad to help you in any way that we can," Mary continued earnestly.  
  
"We will?" Merry muttered to Pippin. "Not if it involves missin' any more meals that we already have, I can tell you!"  
  
"If you will share this terrible thing, perhaps your darkness may be lightened," Mary whispered.  
  
"Wise advice!" Gandalf declared, stepping forward and clapping a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "Heed this elf-maiden's words, Frodo, for she is wise beyond her years."  
  
"Ha!" Arwen muttered savagely, glaring at Aragorn, whose noble and kingly grey eyes, keen as an eagle's (hence his nickname 'Thorongil'), were watching Mary in admiration.  
  
"In fact, Frodo," Gandalf added, extending his other hand. "How about you let me bear the ring for a bit, eh? I won't, er, misuse it or anything. Word of a wizard!"  
  
Frodo eyed him incredulously. "And here I thought wizards were supposed to be *subtle.*"  
  
Gandalf's bushy brows drew together, now resembling one long, low, gnarled grey hedge. "Subtle AND quick to anger, Frodo Baggins."  
  
Frodo gulped and sank back in his chair.  
  
"Nonsense, Mithrandir!" Boromir barked, leaping to his feet. He had been too rapt in his contemplation of Mary's pearly teeth to notice what was going on before, but now he took the initiative as a Man of Gondor (not to mention Captain-General and High Wardon of the White Tower) should. "No need to burden yourself with that trinket! Frodo," he added, turning to the hobbit. "*I* will be more than happy to take it off your hands – er, I mean, off the chain around your neck – for a short while. You can rest assured that *I* will not try to use it."  
  
Mary turned a shocked look of blended reproof and disappointment on him, and Boromir took a step back. "Well . . . perhaps . . . I . . ."  
  
"I think I'll just keep it for now," Frodo assured him.  
  
"Right." Boromir sat down quickly, struggling to convince himself that Aragorn was *not* laughing behind his hand.  
  
"So what're you going to do with it, Frodo?" Gimli growled. He shot a suspicious glance at Legolas and added, "Not try to hide it in any nasty treacherous elf countries, I hope?"  
  
"Us, treacherous?" Legolas demanded indignantly. "This from a DWARF? Three words, Gimli. Thingol. Silmaril. Nauglamír."  
  
Gimli son of Gloin was one of those inestimable "decapitate-first-and-ask- questions-later" dwarves. He hefted his axe and dove straight at the elf, who, a sneer set upon his fair face, dodged lightly aside. Gimli crashed into a chair; his dwarven companions leapt to their feet. A shouting match was initiated, and it threatened to become a full-out brawl.  
  
Elrond turned despairingly to the one other elf in the room who seemed to be keeping her head (Mary-Sue, of course, was also completely calm, but she *was* a lot further away). "Arwen, what do *you* think?"  
  
Arwen (Tinuviel), gazing dreamily at Aragorn's clear-cut profile and soulful eyes (not to mention the vision of the power and majesty of the kings of stone which could be seen in his living face), heaved a great sigh and replied, "I think that Aragorn looks awfully handsome when he's wearing his 'Kingly and Mysterious' look."  
  
The whole Council stopped their arguments to stare.  
  
Arwen blushed a deep red (thereby showing her inferiority to Mary Sue. Mary would never even have dreamt of doing something as plebian as blushing).  
  
"And WHAT," Elrond asked slowly, an expression on his face that would have made Morgoth (Melkor) himself so eager to flee that he would have volunteered to elope with Ungoliant (nasty big spider – See *The Silmarillion*) in order to get out of the room, "does THAT have to do with ANYTHING?"  
  
"Nothing!" Arwen answered, blushing even redder. "It was a general statement, that's all!"  
  
The barely-stifled laughter from the direction of Merry and Pippin did nothing to help matters.  
  
"Please remember," Elrond hissed, glaring wildly at Arwen, "that I have NEVER been in favor of this UNSUITABLE match and may withdraw my consent at ANY TIME!"  
  
"There's nothing wrong with Aragorn, Daddy," Arwen whimpered (thereby showing her inferiority to Mary Sue. Mary had not called her father 'Daddy' since she had been four years old and would never have even considered whimpering).  
  
"He's HUMAN! A mere INFANT!" Elrond roared.  
  
Aragorn scowled at Elrond, a white flame flickering on his brows like a crown. "Hey! I am older than I appear . . . And you're not one to criticize humans, Elrond *Halfelven*."  
  
"Moving right along," Elrond muttered, "what are we going to do with the blasted thing?"  
  
No-one hesitated to give an opinion.  
  
BILBO: Give it back to me!  
  
GANDALF: Let me take it to . . . uh . . . Orthanc – for safe-keeping!  
  
A RANDOM ELF-LORD: Let's keep it here at Rivendell!  
  
SAM: Uh, I've been needin' an engagement ring for my girl Rosie . . .  
  
MERRY: They'll never look in the Shire – specially not Bucklebury!  
  
PIPPIN: Uh . . . right! They'll never look in the shire - especially not around us Tooks!  
  
BOROMIR: It should be given to the men of Gondor to be protected!  
  
ARAGORN: Well, I AM Isildur's heir, you know –  
  
GIMLI: Give it to the dwarves – WE will never be corrupted!  
  
LEGOLAS: We'll give it to you all right – we'll ram it right down your dwarvish throats and pray that you choke!  
  
GIMLI: I'd like to see you try, Leggy-Lass!  
  
LEGOLAS: Why, you –  
  
MARY: It is evil! The Ring must be destroyed! Why don't we cast it into the fires of Mount Doom?  
  
ELROND: YES!!!  
  
All movement stopped. Legolas released his strangle-hold on Gimli; Gimli ceased pulling Legolas's hair; Gandalf lowered his staff from it's position above a random elf-lord's head; Aragorn and Boromir sheathed their swords; Bilbo and Frodo ceased their tugging match over Sting's hilt; Sam crawled out from under Merry and Pippin muttered something about crazy Brandybucks and Tooks.  
  
"Yes!" Elrond repeated, bringing a fist decisively down on the arm of his chair. "The Ring must be destroyed! Argalawenis – Ar – Argelawanieldriselda – er - Argalwenidrielisilarwinilisia, that is an EXCELLENT idea! Since we've agreed that you must go and confront Sauron, why doesn't Frodo go with you? You can take a detour and cast the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. In fact, since it's such a dangerous journey, you should take all of these fellows with you – yes, you too, Aragorn," he added, cavalierly ignoring Arwen's realistic dumb-struck fish- out-of-water expression. "We'll make it a company! The Nine Walkers! Well, now that's settled," he continued briskly. "You can all leave first thing in the morning. On to our next piece of agenda. Glorfindel, what do you think we should do about Elladan and Elrohir's habit of singing loud Teleri drinking songs after curfew?"  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Elrond glared at Pippin. "What NOW, halfling?"  
  
"But – but – but – but – I can't go – I mean – why – anyway, there's ten of us, not nine! Can't I stay?"  
  
This barely threw Elrond for a second. He was, after all, Elrond (Halfelven), descended from a Maiar (Melian (wife of Thingol)), powerful humans like Beren (Camlost, son of Barahir) and Tuor (son of Huor (brother of Hurin (father of Turin (Turambar)))), not to mention the first three elven kings (Finwë, Olwë, and some chap with a similar name that might have begun with an 'I'. If you think I'm going to go look it up, think again). A little thing like an error in counting could barely phase him.  
  
"Of course," he said smoothly. "The Dark Lord has nine ringwraiths (foul dwimmerlaiks) to guard him, and Frodo will have the nine walkers to guard him. Any more objections?"  
  
"I am going NOWHERE with an elf!" Gimli snarled.  
  
"Exactly," Elrond responded promptly. (Brilliant repartee was, after all, his forte.) "Mount Doom *is* commonly referred to as 'nowhere.' Any more inane comments?"  
  
Gimli gaped speechlessly, his mouth opening and shutting like that of a heavily-bearded and well-armed fish.  
  
"Good," Elrond said tranquilly. "I'm glad that's settled. You can all start first thing in the morning. Meeting adjourned."  
  
  
  
* * * * * *  
  
NEXT on MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE: Mary-Sue meets Caradhras!!! Featuring guest star BILL (the pony) property of SAMWISE (Gamgee, son of Hamfast), former property of BILL FERNY (random nasty denizen of Bree; destined to come to a nasty end.) What DIRE events will occur as the Fellowship sets out??? Will Boromir (or Aragorn or Legolas) declare his LOVE for Argalawenisildriela??? Will Gandalf EVER find his missing pipeweed??? For answers to these thrilling questions (and more!), tune in later for the NEXT exciting episode of MIDDLE-EARTH MEETS MARY-SUE!  
  
Brought to you by WWRtWWW: Writers Will Rule the World Wide Web. 


End file.
